Wraith
by Rakaesa
Summary: The backstory (and if I continue writing, more recent events) of the character I made for Half Life 2 Clockwork Roleplay: Athard 'Wraith' Blaicess.
1. The Beginning

This is a story based on a roleplay character I made for Half Life 2 Clockwork Roleplay. His backstory, his past, and even up to more recent events.

Authors Note: If people like this, I will likely write much more, probably on fanfic or somewhere else like Deviantart where I won't clog up the forums. I wrote this at 3:30 AM in about an hour, and if I write more I do promise it would likely be better detailed and worded, though I don't think this was the worst I've done. Hope you enjoy.

Note #2: The story is meant to be a bit jumbled. It will come together more clearly in the end if I do write more, so let me know if you'd like me to, I have no issue whatsoever, in fact I enjoy writing this story so far :)

**Wraith**

_"Do you know what happens to a man, when he loses everything? When he loses his friends, his family, his home, his goal in life?"_

_"I don't believe someone can lose their goal in life. One's goal, one's meaning, cannot be stripped away from them."_

_"Ah. That may be true, but you can strip their will to follow it. One's energy, one's strength, can be chipped away at over and over, until the point where they no longer have the desire to follow their goal anymore."_

_"Fine...What happens?"_

"What's love, Javert?" The young 13-year-old boy asked his older brother, sitting on his bed in Javert's room. The room was relatively empty, with a dark, oak desk sitting in the corner with a small lamp on it, a single bed with dark green sheets and blue pillows, and a small closet in the corner. Relatively empty, that is, except for books. While most ordinary children would have clothes strewn around the room uselessly, food wrappers and empty sodas, in Javert's room, there were only books. _Piles_ of them, stacked around on the floor, on his desk, piles of them under his bed, and even some in the drawers of his desk and on the top floor in his closet. Different genres, different authors, different forms of writing-To the boy, it was like a library.

"Well, lad, that's a bit hard to describe." He responded, glancing towards his younger brother. He didn't look the least bit surprised by this question, though for the past hour they had been reading in complete silence together, sitting side by side on the edge of the bed, deep into their own books. He should have been surprised, but he wasn't. Partially because he had given his younger brother a certain book by the name of "Hearts in Atlantis" written by Stephen King, which included much about love. Partly because he was just incredibly bright for his age, and usually saw things coming before they happened.

Athard waited for an answer for a few more seconds, knowing he would likely get none. He, too, was quite a bright kid for his age, _especially_ for the age of thirteen, but most of it had been picked up from his brother. He took his habits, learned to read people's emotions like he did, adapted relatively well. No answer came, like he knew it wouldn't, so he continued:

"Well...How do you know when you're in love?" Athard asked him, curiously, turning his gaze away from the book, fully towards his brother. His bright amber eyes rested upon the eyes of his brother, who was still deep inside his own book, or so he seemed, if Athard hadn't known better. No, Javert was really giving Athard his full attention.

"You know you're in love when you don't have to ask." Javert replied thoughtfully, nodding slightly as he spoke the words, seeming to confirm it to himself as he said so.

"Well..That's not very specific.." Athard said in a cute, grumbling tone that few ever heard, usually which was done on purpose.

"It's a feeling of never getting bored of being around someone. Knowing that you'd be fine as long as you could be with them forever. Feeling an uplifting feeling, no matter how bad your mood is, at least just a little-A _feeling_ in your very _soul_ that just says..Everything's right here." He explained more thoroughly, reading at the same time as he spoke.

Athard considered this for a while, reading through the next two pages of his book before speaking again.

"Are mom and dad in love, Javert?" He asked, slowly turning his gaze back to his older brother.

This time, his brother returned the gaze, looking at him solemnly. He said nothing for a few long seconds, before exhaling through his nose, and then opening his mouth.

"No, little brother. I'm not sure they are."

Athard Blaicess was born 1988 in Dublin, the capital of Ireland, into a family with only one other sibling: An older brother by three years. His father was a relatively wealthy doctor, and he _was_ damn good at his job. He worked in 's hospital, a relatively well-known one with plenty of clients, and he was paid an above-average salary, even for a doctor, because he had been working at it for so long. His mother was, unfortunately, unemployed, and stayed at home most of the day with the children, when they weren't away at school.

I could give you more details-but I won't. That would ruin some of the surprise. So sit back, reader, and relax. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Take my hand, now, and hold on tight-I'm going to take us through some pretty dark places, but the story is one worth reading, and I think I know my way around. Enjoy the show.

March, 2002

The school bell rang after the end of last period, and for most kids at 14 years old, that was a blessing. Friday afternoon, school was out for the weekend, and were they thanking the lord for it. Athard walked behind the rest of the herd of students moving through the classroom door, and a few moments before his step to freedom, a deep male's voice behind him called out.

"Athard, could you stay for a minute?" The teacher called, sitting at his desk and thumbing through some papers, giving a brief glance towards the young man.

The "_young man_" stopped and turned on his heel in response. Even at the age of fourteen, you could tell this young man was going to grow up with looks on his side. His features were already beginning the slow process of becoming more defined and masculine. His straight hair, a dark, hazel brown color, hung down to just an inch or two above his jaw line, which was defined and smooth. He had decently high, smooth and rounded cheekbones, with the faintest of a pink tint to them. His skin was a soft tan color, he didn't go to the beach all the time, but he certainly developed a tint. He had a fair complexion, and his body, even at this age, was in very good athletic condition-Gym was one of his two easiest classes, and he could run farther, faster and longer than any of the other boys in his grade. But the most striking thing about him was his eyes. They were a bright, golden-yellow shade of amber, a very rare color in humans, and later in life, most adults would find them very unique and cool, while high school kids were more inclined to just say...Well, 'weird'.

He approached the desk and stopped at the corner, looking down at the man with the faintest of polite smiles crossing his lips.

"Yes, Mr. Brautigan?" Athard asked him, using his best ass-kissing polite tone, knowing fully well that Mr. Brautigan saw right through it.

"Your essay...It was very good, you showed some creativity-and a bit of brilliance-that I haven't seen from you before..." he began, holding out a few stapled papers to Athard. He took the papers and briefly glanced at the mark, which was a 96%, which turned out to be the highest mark in his class on this certain assignment.

"But...It was surprisingly dark, as well. Keep up the good work, however...Try not to be so...Pessimistic, for your age?" finished, smiling slightly at him, looking up through a thin pair of glasses.

Athard stared at him silently for a few seconds, before a polite smile crossed his lips again, and he gave a brief but enthusiastic nod.

"Yes, sir. I'll keep up the good work." He said simply, before turning and slowly walking out of the classroom, heading to his locker.

Athard is what you would call...Unique. Nobody knew quite why, and some couldn't put their fingers on what was so odd about him, but the smart ones always did. Athard barely passed all of his classes, occasionally even failed some during the first half of his school years. Except for English, which he usually got high-70's to mid-80's, and Gym, where he got high 90's, closing in on 100%. But despite his nearly failing classes, you could tell he was smart. You just had to have a conversation with him, or read one of his english essays, to know it. You just had to catch him looking at people, sometimes. He had this..._Sharpness_ about him. He was always paying attention to his surroundings, always trying to read things from peoples emotions and interpret them, and if you had a rare conversation with him, he had a hell of a lot of knowledgeable things to say. He even had a _substantially_ higher use of vocabulary than most children his age, and most often did not understand a quarter of the words he used-though few were humble enough to say so and ask what they meant.

He gathered his things from his locker, slipping on a slightly torn jean jacket, a pair of black leather gloves, and slinging his backpack over his shoulder, before pushing his locker closed and locking it. A few seconds later, he was outside, walking towards the bus stop that would take him home.

He never made it that far, instead he ended up in the hospital.

Three boys that were leaning against a wall-one of them smoking-stood up and followed behind them. Two were one year older than Athard, another was in the same grade, and one of the bigger ones were carrying a baseball bat over his shoulder.

The youngest one came up behind him first and gave him a good, firm push on his shoulder, sending him stumbling forwards slightly before he caught his balance and turned around.

"Ey, Goldy." The young one said with a toothy smirk, showing his somewhat yellow teeth, and an under bite so obvious that you could almost feel the air cringing.

Athard's gaze slowly swept over the three boys, his expression utterly calm, his face showing no sign of fear or anxiety.

"Ello. Do ya need something?" He asked, actually smiling slightly. It would only later, much later, occur to him that the smile is likely what set them off so quickly.

The younger one lunged forwards without warning, sending his fist in a right hook towards Athard's head. His reactions were quick, surprisingly so, but not quick enough to see it coming. He tried to take a step back, just too late, the hook clipping the corner of his jaw line, his head spinning slightly to the side as he finished his step backwards, raising one hand to the wounded spot out of instinct.

Underbite began to lunge after him, but within a few instants, Athard unslinged the backpack from his shoulder, the strap sliding swiftly down his forearm to his wrist, and he swung his arm forwards, the bag flying off with the momentum and hitting Underbite square in the face. The moment the bag fell, Underbite yelling in surprise, Athard's right foot came up above it and made contact with the young mans stomach, sending him stumbling back and then tripping onto the pavement, sprawling and groaning quietly. Athard hadn't done much fighting in his life-Not yet, anyway-But he was quick, and he was creative. He knew he couldn't outrun the other two, even though he was the best runner in his grade, he could tell just by looking at them. He raised both fists, one beside the other, watching them carefully.

The one with the baseball bat ran forwards, swinging it hard at the side of Athard's ribs. It also occurred to him later that, perhaps, the baseball bat would have been used just to threaten him, to toy with him, had he not hurt Underbite quite like that, or maybe if he just hadn't smiled. He lunged his body downwards, ducking under the bat and slamming his right fist hard into the boys gut, who took two steps back with a brief "Oof". As he began to stand up, the third boy was already upon him, sending one curled fist crashing across the side of his face.

Athard stumbled back two paces, seeing stars, quickly trying to regain his balance, blood starting to drip from his nose now. He shook his head in time to see the baseball bat coming at his shoulder and didn't have time to duck, he instead raised his left arm in defense. His upper arm made contact with the bat, and, thankfully for him, the bat hadn't been at full momentum, or his arm likely would have broken. Instead came a searing pain that would later be bad bruising, he let out a yelp, but refused to scream.

The third boy sent another punch at him, to this one he ducked and punched the man straight in the groin, sending him sprawling to the ground in a groan of agony.

Then the baseball bat came again, to which he ducked and slammed his shoulder into the mans chest, causing him to drop the baseball bat to the ground. Athard raised his fist to punch the man square in the face, but a moment before he swung, the youngest boy had grabbed the bat and hit him in the back of the knee. Athard went down with another yelp, and a moment later he saw a foot come up to the side of his head, and then he was seeing stars as he sprawled to the left onto the pavement, head crashing into contact on its side, a gash opening along the left side of his head. He tried to get up, but one more hit came, the baseball bat to the side of his ribcage, this hit strong enough to fracture one of his ribs, which made him yelp loudly in pain and then grip his side, groaning. At which point, all three boys ran off to who knows where.

Athard laid there for about twenty minutes, groaning and squirming in pain, before somebody finally came over, asked what happened, and then went and called the police. An ambulance picked him up ten minutes after that, and Athard Blaicess spent his first of many times in the hospital during his recovery.


	2. Chapter 2

October, 2003

He looked at himself in the mirror, eyes bloodshot, a deep, purple bruise creeping up along the side of his face from underneath his hair. A scar cut across his left eye now, from top to bottom, and it wasn't completely healed over yet, still faintly red and scabbed. Athard raised his left hand, gently running his fingers over said scar twice, sighing heavily to himself and muttering under his breath, tears threatening to come again. He glared at himself staring in the mirror, glared at what was looking back at him, hating what he saw. He shook his head, telling his emotions to piss off, forcing the tears back, telling himself to be tougher, manlier.

He reached into his right hoodie pocket, taking out a small plastic bag with a white powdery substance inside. He poured a small amount onto the palm of his hand, leaning his head down and hovering his nose over the cocaine, inhaling inwards harshly, and then reaching up, pressing his nostrils one at a time as he snorted inward, wincing and twitching his nose. He closed the bag and put it back in his pocket, hands shaking slightly, shaking his head and looking back in the mirror at himself. He then raised his right hand, giving himself a light slap, taking a few deep breaths and then pulling his hood up, exiting the bathroom into the hallway. He walked down past the lockers and the few people still straying around after school hours, exiting through the side door with his small, mostly empty backpack slung over his right shoulder, hands in his pockets.

There was a light drizzle of rain outside, a quiet pitter-patter filling the air, the trees and leaves swaying slightly in a light wind. Leaves fell past him on the street as he walked, the shadow under his hood hiding most of his face, other than his lips and lower jaw. He reached into his left, ragged jeans pocket, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and taking one out, putting it in his mouth and lighting it, the small flame softly illuminating the quiet shadows around him.

About ten minutes later, he turned into a small alley with a small group of people, some wearing hoods, some not, all of them looking quite shady, most of the males muscular. There were eight total, five men and four females, half of them smoking cigarettes, one person smoking out of a bong. Athard walked down the alley up to the group, two of them whispering quietly to each other, and he held out a small wad of money to a large, shady man in a brown leather jacket. The man, eighteen or nineteen years old, in return held out a small plastic bag with a green, plant substance in it to Athard, who took it and slipped it into his backpack.

This entire exchange was done wordlessly, and only as he was walking away, taking a drag from a cigarette, did one of them call after him.

"Yo. Goldy." The large man that had dealt him the drug called.

Athard stopped. He hated the name 'Goldy', but if he responded to it nothing bad happened.

He hesitantly turned around at the sound of the voice, looking at him from under his hood, with the quietest of "Mmm?"s.

"There's a party going on down at Skip's in about twenty minutes, you tagging?" The man asked him, his gaze fixed calmly on the area underneath Athard's hood, a cold, confident air constantly about him.

Athard considered this for a few seconds, tilting his head slightly, before giving a casual nod, and replying with "Yeah, sounds cool."

He walked through the front door of the house, music already softly playing through the house, which was filled with at least a hundred people-the house _was_ at least quite large. The entrance hall alone had about a dozen people shuffling about, most standing around talking to each other. Faint sounds of laughter could be heard echoing around, with the occasional clinking of a glass, or a puff of smoke coming up from a crowd. The night was young, but already there were some filled ashtrays and stray beer bottles laying around.

He gently shuffled through the crowd of people, sliding past most of them without even touching them, angling his body in ways to do so and avoid physical contact. He reached a few empty coat hangers and took off his hoodie, hanging it, revealing a black long-sleeve undershirt with a fairly decent muscular build for his age underneath. He patted a friend of his on the shoulder as he passed him, and stopped at a group of three people, two females and a male, all of whom he knew.

"Hey, folks." He said to them simply, his soft gaze drifting across their faces, judging their emotions before briefly looking around the room around him, and all the people, while they responded.

"Hey!" "Hey, Goldy, My man!" "Hey, Ath." They responded to him, after which he turned his gaze back to them calmly, a few strands of hair hanging down in front of his eyes.

"How we all doing tonight?" He asked them, to which there were similar, generic replies: We're doing great, man, the night's young, the party's just started, the booze is flowin' and the smoke is risin', so what's not to love, what could you possibly hate in here, make yourself right at home and light up a joint, take a swig and waste the night away.

That's the type of thing he thought at every party. With a smile, he nodded before looking away, sighing quietly.

"Lad, she's eyeing you." The boy of the group said. Athard looked at him, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

The boy responded by giving a vague gesture towards the large kitchen, where drinks were being handed out. Wraith gave a casual glance over, as his friend muttered "Long brown hair, table left corner."

He did indeed spot her after a casual pass of his gaze, and she was certainly looking in his direction for a moment before she saw him looking, to which she turned away, taking a sip from a beer bottle. He thought she was beautiful. A slim figure, cheerful eyes, and long, flowing hazel hair that extended down to just above her waist.

"Go say hi." The man said to Athard.

"I couldn't possibly-" But before he could finish his thought, the boy shoved him in the direction of the kitchen, him and both girls laughing.

Athard sighed and went with the momentum, casually walking towards the kitchen.

The problem with this party, with this socializing, with all of this-is that they weren't really his friends. Some of them were people he got drugs from. Some were people he borrowed money from or loaned money to. Some were part of his little street gang that did a bit of crime and got into fights. But friends? No. He had no real friends, to be honest.

He came up beside the woman next to the table, giving her a small smile and nod, waving a hand towards the man handing out drinks, who promptly handed him a beer bottle. Athard popped it open and took a small sip from it.

The girl looked at him with a small smile in return, and quietly said "Hey."

Athard nodded again in return, with a response of "Hey, how's your night going?"

Her smile rested on her face at his response, her gaze resting on his own eyes, tilting her head slightly.

"Pretty good so far, yourself?" She asked curiously.

"Not bad. I just got here, pretty dull so far, in all honesty." He replied with a truthful tone, shrugging slightly.

She smirked and tilted her head again. "How about we fix that?"

He turned his gaze to her curiously, raising an eyebrow. "How so?"

"Come dancing with me. They've got a dance floor set up in the lounge." She said with a mischievous smile.

"Ah..I really don't think-" But again, before he could finish his thought, she was already taking him by the hand and leading him to the lounge. He promptly set his bottle on the table after another quick swig, and allowed himself to be lead, where there were indeed some people dancing to music.

"I really can't dance, lass.." He began, but she raised a finger to his lips.

"Then I'll teach you."

For the next hour, they danced on the floor like animals, giving up any care in the world, at least momentarily. Most of them looked stupid, but they danced none the less. What a wonderful thing dance could sometimes be. An expression of emotion, a way for people to come together.

A little over an hour had passed, when she turned to him and spoke seriously again.

"How about I teach you to tango?" She asked seriously.

"Tango? You know how to dance that well?" He asked, actually interested in the offer.

"Yeah..I went to dance school for a little while, and it was always my favorite dance." She said happily with a small smile in return.

He grinned slightly at this, his gaze shifting to the floor momentarily, considering, and finally saying: "Bah, why not?"

And so they tangoed during the night. She lead at first, showing him how the dance went several times, and then he lead instead. Somewhere along the lines they felt a connection to each other. Nothing as strong as love, no, but when two sad, lonely people find comfort in each other, sometimes they think it's just as good.

When their dancing had stopped, the party was nearly over. For one night, at least, Athard had forgotten about the alcohol laying on the table, and about the need for a cigarette from his pocket. That was enough. Most others were leaving the party, and they stood together on the dance floor, smiling slightly at each other. No, it wasn't love, especially not at their young and immature age, but it was something.

"We should hang out sometime. My name is Sarah." She concluded, giving him a brief pat on the cheek. "You want my number?"

He simply nodded.

"Got something to write it down on?" She asked him.

"Nah. Don't need anything. I'll remember it."

And that much, he did.

May, **1997**

Athard Blaicess walked out into the schoolyard during recess, looking around and blinking in the sunlight, yawning quietly and stretching, taking a few deep breaths of the fresh, crisp air. He smiled and started jogging across the playground, hoping to find a game of hopscotch, catch or tag that he would be allowed to join in on, his amber eyes glowing slightly in the sunlight. He spread his arms out and made imitated the sound of an airplane as he ran across the schoolyard, laughing to nobody in particular but himself. The day was beautiful, and he planned to take advantage of this little recess he had.

He spotted a couple of girls playing a game of hopscotch about a dozen meters away, just what he had in mind, and ran over to them, smiling and laughing before coming to a stop and waving his arms at them.

"Hey! Can I play?" He asked enthusiastically, smiling a big toothy grin at them, cocking his head slightly.

The girls all looked at him and giggled to each other before one shrugged and nodded, with a "Yeah, sure!"

He nodded with a smile and ran to the starting line, beginning to play the game and skip across the squares, not a care in that little boys world on that day. One jump, two jumps, to and fro, he played with the girls in his grade and laughed along with them for a few minutes.

A group of older kids by a few years walked by, one of them pointing and laughing at the group. Another elbowed a third in the stomach, grinning and chuckling, saying mockingly "Oh look, the little boy is playing with the girls", to which one of the ladies of the group giggled. A second girl punched the one that spoke in the arm, with a quiet "Leave him be, it's cute..". Before they all walked off chuckling and giggling.

Athard watched them go, standing on his hopscotch square, frowning slightly and then sighing, deciding it was too cootie-risky and easy to make fun of to be playing with girls, turning and walking off across the schoolyard for something better to do.

After a few minutes he found a group of somewhat older boys playing a game of basketball at a single court. He watched in awe for a few seconds at how quickly they ran around each other, passed the ball from person to person so skillfully, how athletic they were. He wanted to be able to play like that when he was older.

He approached the group, a breeze rustling through his fair brown hair, blinking and coughing before speaking up quietly.

"Hey..Can I play?" he asked timidly, curiously.

The boys stopped after one last pass of the ball, turning to look at him, a rather tall one dribbling the ball up and down on the pavement. One of them raised his eyebrow and laughed quietly, whispering something to his friend and gesturing towards the kid, more specifically his face.

The one in front spoke up first.

"A kid as young as you can't play against us, lad. You're not good enough. Scram."

Athard winced at a certain part of these words, for a moment, before his happy, innocent composure returned with a wide smile as he responded.

"Well, can I at least try to get it in?" He asked happily, clasping his hands together and awaiting a response eagerly.

The boys all looked at each other, shrugged, and the one holding the ball tossed it towards Athard, with a muttered "Shoot, kid."

Athard barely caught it, almost falling over from the impact, barely managing to stay upright and hold the ball. The boys laughed and stepped back, watching as Athard stepped into position, looking up at the basket. He closed his eyes for a few moments, taking a deep breath, opening them and staring at the net.

"He'll never get it anywhere near the basket.." One of the oldest ones murmured to the others, who snickered and nodded in agreement.

He took a few breaths, readying to throw like he saw them throwing it earlier, bending his wrist back and narrowing his eyes. He bent his knees, then popped them up and swung his arm and wrist up and forward, tossing the ball up towards the basket.

The ball fell underneath the basket, hit the wall, rebounded and bounced over to the other boys, one of whom caught it with one hand, laughing.

"No hope, lad, get outta here." One of them said to him, all of them going back to their game.

Athards shoulders sagged slightly, he frowned and walked off, kicking a rock aside as he did, walking over to the schools football field.


End file.
